


stars & nebulas

by Sa_kun



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sa_kun/pseuds/Sa_kun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Icarus is there first, winding dizzying circles around Jensen’s legs the second he’s closed the door behind him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stars & nebulas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rockstarpeach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockstarpeach/gifts).



> This was written for the [](http://spnspringfling.livejournal.com/profile)[**spnspringfling**](http://spnspringfling.livejournal.com/) challenge, and was first posted [here](http://spnspringfling.livejournal.com/82238.html).

  
Icarus is there first, winding dizzying circles around Jensen’s legs the second he’s closed the door behind him, and Jensen sits down on the floor so the dog can climb up and lick his face to his little doggy heart’s content. Jensen buries his face in Icarus’ soft fur, scratching and patting behind his ears. He missed his dog something fierce.

“You’re a good dog, Icarus,” he says, and Icarus yelps – just a little, and it’s quiet, soft. “The very best.”

\--

In the bedroom the early morning light turns the world into soft shades of yellow, red and orange. It hits the bed at an angle, catching the bare feet sticking out from under the covers. The sunlight makes everything warm, makes it cosy and hazy on an everyday morning, but it has nothing on the way it transforms Sunday mornings into lazy fests of slow kisses and fumbling hands, sleep warm and hazy. Those are probably the mornings Jensen has missed the most.

Misha is a lump under the covers, lying in a spot of sunlight, head turned away. Jensen is early; he wasn’t scheduled to come home today, not at barely five in the morning with Misha still in bed, lit by the rising sun. Jensen left his bag by the door, his boots by the kitchen table and he’s still in his fatigues. He’s tired, filthy from having spent half a day in a shuttle and more than anything he wants to sleep, wants to curl around Misha until the space that’s been between them the last several months is all but gone.

Jensen finds Misha’s hand under the covers, fingers warm and malleable. It’s easy, after that, to trace the digits one by one, to stroke his hands up Misha’s arm, to find the elbow and the shoulder, skin turning golden in the early morning light.

“No, Icarus,” Misha mumbles, turning his face into the pillow.

Jensen grins.

The bed dips when he sits down on the bed, and Misha rolls with the motion.

“Fed him too much,” Misha is saying, pawing at Jensen’s leg to push him off. Misha frowns, then he starts to grope at the material of Jensen’s trousers. “Who dressed the dog?”

“I sincerely hope no one dressed Icarus, Misha,” Jensen says, leaning forward, bracing himself with a hand on the head board. “That dog is energetic enough without being eye-catching in pink spandex on top of it all.”

“Am I dreaming?”

“How ‘bout you open your eyes and take a look.”

Misha scrunches up his eyes, but he doesn’t open them. “I’ve got a Jensen,” he says. “But he’s not home. He’s on moon base Luna.” His fingers tighten, pulls at the handful of Jensen’s trousers. “One more week.”

“Not this time,” Jensen says.

“Jensen.”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re not here when I open my eyes this situation will get ugly, I hope you understand. I will not be held accountable for my actions.”

Jensen just laughs, moving one hand to cup Misha’s face, to tug gently at hair gone wild and mussed. “Just so long as you leave Icarus out of it.”

“That dog is a menace. He ate all my left shoes.”

“Your left shoes?”

“All of them,” Misha says again. Jensen traces his lips, thumbs gentle over his eyelids. “Jensen?” he asks, voice hushed.

“Yeah, Misha?”

“What are you doing home?”

“We were recalled. Cut-downs.”

Misha swallows, nods. When he finally does open his eyes, they’re liquid-blue and dark, large and still the most beautiful eyes Jensen has ever seen in his life. “I still say your dog is a menace.”

Jensen laughs. “He’s adorable and you love him, admit it.”

Misha rolls his eyes. “I will admit nothing,” he says. When he sits up, pushing Jensen back as he goes, his sleep shirt, worn and full of holes, falls down over one shoulder. Jensen’s hand follows the motion, touching on warm skin.

The kiss when it comes is warm and familiar, it’s everything Jensen’s missed during the months off-earth, everything he’s wanted since he got on the space shuttle heading for Earth, for _home_ yesterday.

The “You should have called,” is drowned out by the “wanted to surprise you.”

“You know how much I love a man in uniform,” Misha says against his lips. “But I think I love you even more out of it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Misha says, and he’s careful, slow, when he moves to push the jacket off Jensen’s shoulder, to pull the T-shirt off.

“I missed you.”

“I always miss you,” Misha replies, but then he’s pulling of his own shirt, and Jensen stops talking for a while, stops everything, because he can’t do much of anything but touch and kiss and hold Misha closer when they’re naked against each other, when they’re reaching for starbursts and supernovas in the quiet warm light of the early morning. There’s nothing but Misha then, and Jensen lets the rest of the world fall away around them.

\--

“Icarus doesn’t like it when you leave,” Misha says later, stretched out on his stomach across the bed next to Jensen. He’s naked, and Jensen traces the bumps of his spine, the angles of his shoulder blades and the swell of his buttocks. He hasn’t touched anyone since he left, not like this, and he knows he’ll be all over Misha for days, touching just for the sake of touching and still not getting enough.

“I don’t like leaving him,” Jensen says.

“I think he’d like it if you stayed.”

“I know.” Jensen lingers on a constellation of birthmarks, dotting his fingers on them until the scar along Misha’s side pulls his hands away, and he strokes his thumb over it. “I know I’d like that, too.”

“We could do this every day.”

“We could.”

“You could bring me breakfast in bed every morning.”

“I could.”

“And cook dinner every night. You could become a chef; open up a little diner down the street.”

Jensen laughs. “Maybe,” he says, kissing Misha under his ear, nosing at the tufts of hair at the base of Misha’s neck, the little curls that hide there. Misha turns around until they’re facing each other, legs tangled.

“You could take Icarus on walks, watch as he flirts with all the dogs in the neighbourhood.”

“You could come with me.”

Misha smiles, reaching out to tap Jensen on the nose. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Oh?”

“I have to be at home, perfecting my reputation as the glorious housewife.”

“Is that what the neighbours are saying?” Misha just grins, eyes crinkling, so Jensen reaches down for his hand, lacing their fingers together before he starts tracing those lines as well. “Wouldn’t we have to be married for you to be my housewife?”

“Not necessarily,” Misha says. “The tale of our lives will be much more tragic if I never become Mrs Jensen Ackles, you see, forever doomed to be the illicit lover of the Air Force major.”

Jensen laughs, tucks his face into the crook of Misha’s neck. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“Of course not. It’s our duty to keep the tongues of the busybodies around here wagging.” Misha shifts, tucks himself closer to Jensen. “Of course…”

“Mmm?”

“If we were married it would be easier to have children.”

Jensen stills but his heart pounds. “We haven’t talked about kids,” he says.

“There’s a lot of things we haven’t talked about,” Misha says, voice warm. “Kids, more pets, what shade to paint the living room, do we want red or white hydrangeas by the garage or should we plant some climbing clematises instead—” Jensen’s laughter cuts Misha off, shaking his body. When Misha says his name, his tone is fond.

“Clematises, definitely,” Jensen says, and he’s still chuckling. “We could get some of those blue ones and you could put together a trellis for it, give them something to climb.”

“And kids?”

Jensen grins, kisses Misha – lips and tongues, soft and warm and slow and sure. “Only if you marry me.”

“ _Only_ , huh,” Misha drawls, but there isn’t really enough space between their mouths to say much of anything. “Some demands you make, Mr Ackles.”

“Major,” Jensen says. “That’s Major Ackles to you, Mr Collins.”

Misha laughs. He rolls them until Jensen is on his back, staring up at Misha’s face. “Is that what you’re gonna have our kids call you, too, _Major Ackles_?”

“Just their teachers,” Jensen corrects, and he’s smiling so hard his cheeks almost hurt. Seeing Misha this happy, this full of love, makes something in Jensen warm and soft, makes him never want to leave again and stay right here with this man for the rest of his life.

“Oh, _just_ the teachers.” Misha rolls his eyes. “I guess that’s all right, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Misha says, leaning in for another kiss that turns into three.

The early morning is turning into later morning, into breakfast times in the kitchen and a walk around the neighbourhood with Icarus, but they can have this for a little while longer; can have the lingering kisses and the wandering hands; the promises of tomorrow and forever; of a house filled with kids and laughter; of love and early Sunday mornings spent in bed.


End file.
